Wilmes winter storm turns home into a lonely place postbulletin.com garlic herb bread machine recipe

Playful angels sprinkled the earth with hoarfrost, which remained on the trees and fence until mid-morning when an east wind gained strength.

The pheasants and other birds feasted on cracked corn until three obnoxious and aggressive squirrels bullied them. The sound of ice letting loose its grip on tree branches reverberated across the yard. Ash limbs that had given way under the ice’s weight lay scattered on top of the snow similar to soldiers lost in battle.

A shaman — a priest or priestess who claims the power to divine and control events — assuredly would take credit for both the morning’s beauty as well as the winter storm that was expected to follow. A shaman claims the power to stir the cauldron of good and evil. Some say the coyotes that make their presence known here are shamans in and of themselves.

The storm, which began with rain, was gone before the next morning broke.Winter storm


daylight revealed a cloudless sky and hard drifts too deep to shovel. There would be no sunday church and no formal reading of the old testament’s account of sara and abram — an aged and barren couple who were promised offspring as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on a seashore.

We watch “meet the press” despite my protest the news is much too depressing. The florida school shooting and the syrian slaughter of the innocent are reason enough to be downcast. It is not enough for good vs. Evil to wrestle to a draw. The nation was built on an idealism and a manifest destiny that made it appear inevitable good would best evil.

The house seems a lonely place when we are stranded alone together. We fight about oatmeal or something equally petty before retreating to separate rooms to reinforce our isolation. I’m in our girls’ former bedroom, where the ticking of a pooh bear-faced clock seems outlandishly loud.Lonely place

The wall holds crosses, a “the sky is the limit’’ poster designed to inspire, a framed stitching urging “please be patient … god isn’t finished with me yet,’’ and a chalk board with “hi mom!” and hand-drawn hearts.

An american flag and the remains of a bush-cheney ’04 bumper sticker hang on the wall. The sticker might well have been a teenager’s rebellion during a time that now seems remarkably distant.

I’m at work on the computer, which sits atop an oak desk that was mother’s pride. It’s surface once held three small and delicate doilies made with patience and a perfectionist temperament. Mother could never quite achieve perfection, a failure she was quick to point out when someone complimented the doilies or the quilts made on the large wooden frame that once had been her grandmother’s.

The desk contained a year’s worth of farm finances kept for tax purposes, letters from vietnam, an address book, appliance owner’s manuals and more.Lonely place I had selected it, mother’s singer sewing machine and a bread pan when we drew lots to see who got what from the estate.

The cellphone calls. A telemarketer who seems capable of talking without taking a breath thanks me for being a good customer before I end the one-sided conversation.

We await the snowplow’s arrival. In the meantime, a TV channel offers “wagon train,” “have gun-will travel,” “the rebel” and “wanted dead or alive” in black-and-white simplicity. I’ve seen most of the episodes more than once. For no sensible reason, it feels better to be bored and half-awake than to walk into the bedroom and apologize for the fight about oatmeal and “meet the press.”

Bogey, who struggled trekking through the snow, is eager to get back into the house so he can sleep in carpeted comfort. The cold west wind slaps my face, which was just what I needed.Good evil